


Whisky River

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23738845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Kudos: 12





	Whisky River

Blair screamed.

The raggedy sound was wrenched from his gut as he involuntarily jerked and twisted. His face was white to the lips and greenish-gray around the edges.

“You’ve got to hold him still, Simon,” Jim said gruffly with a brief, pleading look.

“Sorry, yeah,” Simon replied, looking a bit peaked himself. He shifted a little and applied a sturdier grip to his hold on Blair.

Jim stopped what he was doing, looked Blair square in the eyes, and tapped him gently on the cheek.

“Hang in there, Chief,” he said. An order. Non-negotiable. “Almost done here.”

Blair nodded his head shakily. It was the slightest of movement but it had a marked effect on his pallor. He went from white to oatmeal-pasty in a second. He closed his eyes and fought back the wave of nausea that swept over him.

Jim’s tap melted into a firm pat of reassurance. And then he resumed what he was doing.

The gash in Blair’s side was deep and dirty. And they were a long way from help. Cleaning out the bits of debris was taking longer than Jim would’ve liked.

“So stupid, so stupid, so stupid,” Blair chanted in a strangled hiss between huffed breaths.

“Not your fault, Chief,” Jim assured him automatically, and he missed the incredulous look Blair mustered as his concentration remained focused on his task.

It’d been a simple misstep, nothing more, which had sent Blair plunging from the trail headlong into the river and onto the submerged spear point of a branch.

But without missing a beat, Blair’s chant changed to “Ow, ow, ow, damn, ow,” as he gave in to the reassuring words as well as the discomfort he was suffering.

It took a few more minutes for Jim to be satisfied he hadn’t missed any tiny particles of cloth, river vegetation or minuscule splinters of wood.

“Hand me the flask.” Jim waggled fingers impatiently at Simon with one hand as he kept pressure on the wound with the other.

Also keeping one hand on Blair, Simon dug into his vest pocket, one-handed. He pulled out the flask, and gave it to Jim.

As Jim unscrewed the cap, Blair watched him with a wide, unfocused stare. His fuzzy brain didn’t register what Jim was going to do.

“This is gonna hurt like a sonuvabitch.” Jim’s words were directed at Blair, but the warning was meant for Simon.

Simon tightened his hold immediately, and before Blair could react, Jim tipped the flask and let the smoky amber liquid flow liberally into the wound.

Blair’s shriek was much more visceral this time. He arched his back and his features contorted in response to the pain.

Simon moaned reflexively at the sight of the expensive, aged liquor pooling in the cavity of the wound and trickling across Blair’s trembling flesh.

It couldn’t be helped; he knew that. Blair’s pack had held the first aid kit with the disinfectant, and they’d had to strip it off him in order to get him out of the water. Hard telling where it’d ended up. Either at the bottom of the river, which was likely since the weight of it had threatened to drag Blair under; or possibly washed ashore somewhere downriver.

“He’s gonna puke,” Jim said matter-of-factly.

Simon quickly but gently eased Blair’s head to the side and held him securely as he vomited. Then Blair’s eyes rolled up into his head, revealing the whites for a just a moment before he passed out.

“About time,” Simon mused with a deep-throated chuckle. “Damn stubborn kid couldn’t’ve made it easier on all of us and just passed out to start with?”

Jim smiled grimly, nodding in agreement. He finished dressing the wound and then held the flask out to Simon. He jiggled it, to let Simon know it wasn’t empty.

Simon jutted his chin toward Jim, who didn’t refuse the offer. He took a good swig of the whisky and then handed it to Simon, who did the same.

“Who the hell brings twelve year old scotch to a backwoods fishing trip?” Jim asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

Simon laughed out loud at that. “I’m long past the days of Boone’s Farm and MD 20-20,” he replied. “If I’ve gotta put up with you two, I deserve a treat.”

“We brought beer,” Jim countered, in a mock-affronted tone. “And not the cheap stuff.”

He helped Simon get Blair into a more comfortable position on the ground and began checking him over carefully for any additional injuries. Then they worked together to get Blair out of his wet clothes and into something warm.

When Blair was settled, Simon started a fire, and then he and Jim changed out of their wet clothes too. Then they sat down wearily, one on either side of Blair, and got their bearings.

They passed the flask back and forth a few times, each taking moderate sips, letting the warmth of the whisky fill them and allow it to help wash away the fear and anxiousness of the past hour.

Jim glanced at the sky, judging the amount of daylight left. Not much.

“The bleeding’s stopped, he’s not injured anywhere else,” Jim said in response to Simon’s unasked question. “I’m not worried about infection, thanks to you.” He indicated the flask with a wave and a smile. “I’d just as soon wait until morning to pack him out.”

Simon didn’t disagree, knowing Jim wouldn’t risk Blair’s health, not even in deference to his own inadequacy to negotiate the terrain in the dark.

Blair groaned. He opened first one eye, then the other, each movement seeming to take extreme strength of will.

Jim laid the back of his hand against Blair’s forehead, more as show for both his companions than the need of it. “No fever,” he said out loud.

The look Blair gave him said he’d have batted Jim’s hand away if he’d had the strength.

“Any ‘ov at fer me,” Blair croaked, eyeing the flask Simon held dangling from his right hand.

“Not a chance,” Simon answered. He held the flask protectively, clutching it against his chest. “You’ve had your share,” he quipped feebly. He pointed at Blair’s side. “More than your share,” he emphasized. But his voice was gravelly.

Blair smiled groggily, not put off in the slightest. He struggled ineffectively to gain a sitting position, and tried to make a grab for the flask. At least, that’s what Jim and Simon assumed the floppy-handed gimme gesture was intended to be.

Jim snorted, pushed Blair back down with ease and bopped him gently on the forehead.

“Go back to sleep, Chief,” he suggested sternly, but the order didn’t quite make it to his eyes.

Blair blinked a few times, and then grimaced. “Hurts,” he said, touching his side gingerly. “Could usea pain killer.” He peered inquisitively out of one half opened eye.

“Nice try. No alcohol, sorry Junior.” Jim replied.

He offered sips of water and a salvaged packet of aspirin from his own pack along with face washing and general fussing instead. Blair gave in, somewhat less than gracefully, to the coddling.

“Liquor’s quicker,” Blair mumbled dreamily, as if that made some sort of sense, before drifting off to sleep.

Simon laughed, letting the last of his worry drain away as he watched his two friends banter. He gave Jim a thoughtful glance. Then he raised the flask to Blair, downed the remaining whiskey in two gulps and agreed, “Damn straight.”


End file.
